Page 33 of The Bachelor Spy
“No,” Grace conceded, “but he’s an excellent deterrent to trouble.”
Zahra’s dubious look suggested she’d seen Zeus trip over his own paws too often to be convinced.
Grace crossed to the stone baptismal font. It was simple, elegant, worn smooth by centuries of devotion. Or at least she hoped the wear was from devotion. It made for a nicer thought.
With a smile, she traced her gloved fingers over the carved edges, wondering if perhaps she and Frederick might have their children christened here someday—her hand went to her stomach—if she was able and if the war would ever end long enough for such hopes to seem sensible.
Her ruminations were interrupted when sunlight caught on something at the base of the font—a flicker of gold amid the gray stone and dust.
What?
Bending, which felt a little awkward for some reason, she retrieved a small brass button. Plain yet solid. On its underside, a faint thread still clung to the shank—khaki wool, tightly spun.
Her breath hitched. The top bore the Royal Crown and Arms—standard issue on British Army uniforms. But the shine was far too bright to be an heirloom handed down for posterity. This was recent.
She looked toward the window. The patients didn’t wear their uniforms at Havensbrooke. They wore their hospital blues, like many of the other country convalescent hospitals were issued. At some point recently, a man in uniform had entered here and lost a button.
But how did one of the patients know about this place? It was outside of the usual traipses Nurse Wilson took the patients on for exercise. Did it have something to do with the thief?
Her finger smoothed over the button. Perhaps she should tell Blake about it.
She frowned. But she wasn’t certain how much to trust Blake, especially with his unusual behavior since arriving at Havensbrooke.
Her shoulders bent. Even if he was up to something dastardly, he’d always been the perfect gentleman to her, and he’d had ample opportunity to kill her in the past if he’d ever wanted to. She released a long breath and shook her head. Of course she could trust Blake.
The wind sighed through the open doorway, carrying a fresh thread of that cologne’s clove scent. She scanned the room again, gaze landing on Zahra, who studied the carved wooden eagle poised at the tip of the lectern.
“Come, Zahra,” she called, holding out her hand until the little girl took it. “Let’s get back to the house before anyone worries about us.”
And then, perhaps, Grace could make a valiant attempt at finding out which of their gallant soldiers smelled suspiciously of clove and was undoubtedly involved in this mystery.
Blake had searched the east wing, the music room, and the solarium—all empty. The drawing room yielded only a half-finished embroidery project.
Lady Astley was nowhere to be found.
He rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulder giving a phantom twinge—the old wound from theLusitaniathat had never quite healed properly. Or perhaps it was simply his body’s way of reminding him that ghosts had a habit of reappearing when least convenient.
Evie Montgomery being that particular ghost.
And she was here, of all places. At Havensbrooke. Disguised as a housemaid named Helen Gale. And looking just as devastatingly beautiful as she had while pointing a gun at his chest.
Blake sent his gaze heavenward. It really wasn’t fair.
Impeccably clever, yes.
But downright infuriating.
It was difficult to argue with the Almighty when Blake had witnessed His handiwork unravel the most intricately impossible situations into something marvelous. Freddie and Grace’s marriage being chief among them.
But this entire Evie debacle pushed even the limits of what Blake had experienced.
Or believed possible.
And if she turned out to be the Midnight Angel?
His shoulder ached all the way down to his heart.
Well, he wasn’t prepared for that plot twist in the least.
